Love for the dead
by sexyfoxx86
Summary: This is a story about a woman who falls in love with a man. Only he is dead, and so is she...but she doesn't know it! I will post a new chapter weekly! Please comment and tell me what you think!
1. Chapter 1

"Oh, hell," I said, and kicked my shredded tire. The compartment for the spare was empty. I had forgotten that Roy had a flat the previous week, and this was his BMW—I'd taken it instead of my car for no particular reason that I could remember. Earlier that morning, three hundred miles east of here, I hadn't been thinking very clearly about such things, of course. I'd never thought to check whether he'd replaced the spare.

I sat down in the driver's seat of the BMW and closed my eyes both in exasperation and against the glare of the afternoon sun. A hundred and fifty miles to go to Papa's house, and it might as well have been the dark side of the moon without a working car. But it was a miracle that the blown tire hadn't sent the car completely out of control. I had been driving too fast for my ability since I was in such a hurry, and the abrupt left-hand curve had taken me by surprise. Someone else had been taken by surprise as well, since he had spilled some of his load of used lumber, complete with big bent nails sticking straight up like police road block spikes.

The thought of the police did nothing to ease my mind; if they were after me by now, I had no way to run. My right front tire had instantly exploded and sent me veering off onto the right shoulder. The ditch beside the road could have flipped the car on its roof if I'd gone in; it was sheer chance that I had stopped in time, though I had panicked and stomped on the brakes so hard that they had locked in a terrifying screech. There had been a rough jolt and a flash of light and an impression of tearing apart, but when I'd come to my senses I had been sitting on the shoulder, my skid marks still smoking. I looked at the four white wooden crosses set against the bank of the ditch to mark where a fatal accident had taken place. Someone had been watching over me, because by all rights, I should have been dead.

Dead. The realization sent a thrill through my body, centering between my legs, hot and fluid like blood or sex; such thoughts always affected me that way.

Perhaps it would have been best if I *had* died…a quick shock and all my troubles would have been over, out of my hands, forgotten. Death could have meant peace; I liked the idea of traveling an unknown road with death my only companion. Though where I might have ended up after taking the easy way out might have made the most troublesome life look like paradise. "Speaking of hell…" I muttered to myself. I'd once been a devout Catholic, but I told myself I didn't believe in such things any more.

Well, as long as I wasn't dead, I realized I had better call Papa to tell him I'd be late. Leaning into the car and reaching for my purse, I felt for my cell phone. My fingers first encountered the stock of the .32, since the revolver crowded the other contents aside as if to make itself manifest with a mind of its own. I pulled the gun out and put it on the passenger seat, removed a Snickers bar to get it out of the way as well, then found my phone and turned it on, pulling up the antenna. It beeped for a moment as it attempted to find a signal and failed. This was a country road that ran between hills, far from any town, and of course there wasn't a cell tower in transmission range.

I jammed the phone back in my purse and swore. Papa wasn't expecting me for another three hours or so, I hadn't seen another vehicle on this road in thirty minutes at least, and since I'd taken this detour for the express purpose of avoiding the well-traveled freeways that crossed the state line, no one knew where I was. Even if Papa backtracked to find me, he wouldn't realize I had wandered fifty miles north of my usual route, since I hadn't told him my exact plans when I had called him that morning; I had been frantic to get on the road and had told him nothing but the bare facts. I was well and truly stuck unless someone stopped to help.

Where was the next house or ranch? I'd never driven this way before, so I had no idea, but probably the nearest people were miles away—I'd last passed a driveway and mailbox three quarters of an hour before doing seventy, and there were no fences or cows in sight. Nothing but rolling brown hills slashed with an occasional ravine, the black strip of road winding along a dry creek bed before ascending one of the lower hills some distance to the west, my direction of travel. It might have been the SaharaDesert for all the signs of life or settlement I could see.

Getting a map out of the glove compartment, I studied the route. No towns were marked along the road for twenty miles to the east and fifty miles to the west. I had two choices. I could stay with the car and hope someone came along before dark, or I could start hiking in the hot sun under the cloudless sky with no water and not much idea of my destination. I decided to stay with the car.

More than five hours later I was beginning to regret that decision. Not a single car had come along the road in all that time. The sun had declined to a point almost directly level with my eyes as I stood on the shady side of the baking-hot black BMW; it would set in less than thirty minutes. I would not only be stuck; I would be stuck after dark with no food or water on a lonely road without even the option of hiking out. I might have been a little scatterbrained that day, but I wasn't stupid enough to walk a road I didn't know in the dark of the moon without a flashlight. I could stumble straight into one of the ravines and never be heard from again. But I was hungry, having eaten the candy bar from my purse three hours before, and I was very thirsty, not having had a drink since I had left home. Was I going to have to stay here all night? It certainly looked like it.

A few Canadian geese flew overhead, honking. I checked my watch for the fourteenth or fifteenth time: 7:30 P.M. and only a little bit of daylight left. The sun kept declining and touched the crest of the western hill, just where the road came over the ridge, my spirits sinking with it.

At that moment, at long last, I heard an engine. A faint sound approaching from the west, though still a long way off on the other side of the hill. "Thank you, God!" I said to the sky. It was probably a ranch pickup with a dog or two in the back and a guy with a cowboy hat driving—he could give me a ride to the nearest phone and maybe even something to drink. I was so thirsty my mouth had gone nearly dry. The sound of the engine suddenly increased in volume and something topped the ridge, centered in the disk of the dying sun.

Squinting against the light, I tried to make out what the vehicle was, but as it started down the slope towards me, it fell into the shadows on the eastern side of the hill. All I could see was a moving blotch wheeling with the sunspots in my vision, the engine growing louder and louder. Deep, throaty hammer of pistons; I blinked into the twilight at the blotch. It wasn't growing larger at a quick enough rate—too small for a truck. A compact car, or…a motorcycle. Yes, it was definitely a bike, since now I could see the blotch had only one headlight, and my ears could make out the distinctive throb of a Harley. I hadn't had entirely good experiences with guys who rode Harley's, so the sound sent a wave of prickles over my skin.

I got into the still-hot car and glanced at the revolver on the passenger seat. It was unlikely that a man who rode on remote routes at dusk was a predator—how many unaccompanied women was he likely to encounter? Probably just a farm kid on his way home for dinner; I wouldn't want to frighten him when he pulled up.

The sun slipped behind the hill and twilight spread over the valley just ahead of the approaching bike. I had a strange idea that the rider was bringing the shadows with him. I closed the car door and put the gun under the floor mat where it would be accessible just in case, and straightened up to look out the windshield at the rider, turning on my headlights to show him that there was someone in the car. He was about a quarter of a mile away now, rapidly approaching, and he had grown larger with proximity at a rate faster than that of his bike. It was a big bike, but he was a bigger man. No helmet; just a black bandanna tied over his forehead.

I flashed the brights a couple of times as a distress signal and the rider slowed, his head cocked at an angle as if he were sizing me up. I could see he had long hair under the bandanna and wore a black leather coat and jeans. As he braked to a stop on the gravel shoulder ten yards in front of the car, spotlighted in my headlights, I bit my lip with the beginnings of apprehension.


	2. Chapter 2

He wasn't merely a big man; he was huge. Shoulders like an eight-lane highway, enormous hands in black fingerless gloves, muscular legs that went on for miles. As he sat upright in the saddle of the big pearl-white Harley, his feet planted flat on the ground, his knees bent at enough of an angle that his thighs pushed up the folded flaps of the coat. How tall was he? He cut his engine and left the keys in the ignition, then flipped down the kick stand and dismounted with a deliberate swing of one of those endless legs.

I realized my heart was beating like a sledgehammer; I swallowed hard with a dry throat and nudged the revolver with my foot. A trickle of sweat ran down my cheek because the car was hotter than hell inside after sitting in the sun all afternoon, and I wiped it away. If I was going to get the gun out again I had better do it now, because the rider had tucked his sunglasses into his coat and was walking towards my car, his boots crunching on the gravel. He stood well over six feet—no, he stood well over six and a half feet, close to seven feet tall, and the long leather coat lent him the air of a caped highwayman, the flaps swinging with his lengthy strides.

I wondered if I should open the door at all—I tried to remember articles I had read on what women should do if they had car trouble. What kind of man was he: honorable or otherwise? Could I even tell from his outward appearance? His face was large-featured and fair-skinned, marked with a reddish goatee and mustache a little darker than his collarbone-length hair, the edges of which glowed flame-colored against the sunset sky. Something about that face frightened me aside from its owner's size, though its expression wasn't overtly cruel or degenerate. It was set and grim and…indifferent. Indifferent to what? I couldn't quantify that face, and I had little time to think it over. The rider had reached my car.

He tapped my hood with the fingers of one hand and glanced at the engine badging and the ruined tire, then came around to the driver's window and put a hand on the roof. He had to bend a long way down to look through the window at me, nearly squatting on his haunches, and I met his eyes.

Narrow and penetrating under light brows, they looked strangely acid green, but that was probably a trick of the fading light, I thought. Their gaze held mine through the glass for a long moment, then moved over the interior of the car and my body, the rider finally meeting my eyes again as I examined him. He might have been in his late thirties, about eight or nine years older than I. An open denim shirt showed the upper contours of his pectorals and he wore a gold chain around his neck. His face was either too heavy-boned and Irish slope-nosed for beauty, or its virile irregularities fell together into a strangely compelling mix—I couldn't decide on that aspect of it either. It wasn't a clean-cut face, or a simple face. The mind and personality and experiences behind it had been shaping and battering it for a lifetime. The rider raised his brows slightly as if to inquire whether I was planning to roll the window down any time soon, and I flushed and rolled it down.

The outside air was growing chilly and somewhat damp, moving the evening's scent past my face; I caught road dust and engine smell and something even warmer from the rider's body: sharp saltiness with a musky undertone. It was like worn leather or dried meat, something neither alive nor dead: in arrested decay. All the muscles of my thighs and pelvis tensed for a moment. I'd always noticed that if you liked a man's smell, the rest might not matter much. He could be a pipsqueak or a gun control advocate and still he could do just fine in bed if you liked his smell. And the rider wasn't a pipsqueak by a long, long shot.

"Evenin'," he said.

"Uh…hello," I replied.

"You've been sitting here a long time, girl."

My eyebrows went up—how did he know? "Your engine's cold," he said by way of explanation. Looking at me very carefully, he took a deep breath through his nose; I had the impression he was evaluating my scent the same way I had his.

"Oh. I got a flat about two this afternoon. See that lumber there, with the nails? I almost ran off the road and I'm not sure how I—" The rider silently asked a question again and I said, "There's no spare and I don't know this road, so I thought it was better to stay in the car. I might have tried to walk out if I'd realized how little traffic there is along here. You're the first person I've seen since I..."

Again my muscles tensed, the flutter in my stomach probably visible through my jeans, because admitting how alone I was seemed dangerous. I wished I had put the gun in my pocket, though a dinky .32 might not have made much impression on a near-seven-foot monster like the rider unless I hit dead center. I knew how to use a gun, of course, but I wasn't a hand-to-hand fighter, and even if I had been, my potential opponent's size advantage alone would have defeated me before I ever got started. A gun was an equalizer, the only one available to a small woman like me.

"Blew a tire on the curve and _almost_ ran off the road." His voice was low and measured with a strong taste of Texas in it. I saw his brows crease and his tongue ruminatively push out his cheek, and he looked up and down the road and at the skid marks and the car and me as if he were visualizing what had happened. Glancing at the four white crosses, he seemed to come to a conclusion and nodded slightly to himself.

"Yes, that's what I said. So I guess that I've—"

"Been waiting just for me?" he said, straightening up without even the ghost of a smile. "Come on, get out."

"W-what?"

"Get out of the car, girl." He tapped on the roof with a note of mild impatience. "Fancy set of wheels, but it's not going anywhere right now. I'll take you where you need to be." Pointing his chin at his bike, he looked down at me. I didn't move. How could I put myself into the hands of a man like him, a formidable stranger whose trustworthiness was entirely unknown? He smiled slightly, the first time he had done so. The expression improved his looks considerably—all the angles of his face realigned, and my heart jumped. "Now, this is assuming you don't want to sit here until someone else happens to come this way, tomorrow or the next day. I could be wrong." When I didn't immediately reply he shrugged slightly and turned, heading back to his bike.

I made a quick decision and scooped up the .32 from under the mat, inserting it into my purse out of his line of sight, then unlocked the door and rolled the window up again before getting out. I turned off the headlights and put on my jacket. The rider had already started his Harley and rode it slowly up to the side of the BMW as if he'd known all along that I would agree. I locked the door and looked around.

The rider's eyes were directed at my rear end, but again I had the impression of indifference. "'Least you're dressed all right for a bike. Get on." I slung my purse over my shoulder and pulled it around to my back to avoid banging the gun against him and betraying its presence, then stood up against the bike and put a tentative hand on the saddle. The rider looked around at me. "You ever ridden before?"

I blushed a little; I knew I didn't look much like a biker babe, though I wore designer jeans and an expensive leather jacket. "Uh, yes. A while ago. With a helmet."

"Sorry; don't have one." He cocked a brow at me. "You could just say a prayer and trust that I'm the one to keep you safe."

I didn't feel the least bit safe with him, not in any respect, but I didn't have a lot of choice, so I put a foot up on a piece of chrome and struggled to mount the high back of the saddle; I was only five foot four in three-inch heels and obviously this bike hadn't been chopped low, not with a rider nearly seven feet tall. He turned and picked me up, lifting me effortlessly into place and flipping out the passenger foot pegs. I gasped a little, both in awe at his strength and in disturbance at his touch. Those hands were so large they completely spanned my admittedly small waist.

"Hang on," he said, pivoted the bike and took off in the direction from which he had come.

I grabbed him around the waist and hung on as he told me. Into the reddening sunset he rode, his hair whipping in the wind far over my head and the leather coat bellying like a spinnaker. "Where were you trying to go, girl?" he asked over his shoulder, raising his voice to be heard above the roar of the bike.

"My Papa's house. I was supposed to be there by four, so I'm hours late. He's probably tracking me with bloodhounds by now."

He grunted, which I felt more than heard, as I was pressed against his back and embracing his body with both arms. "Yeah? Where?"

"He lives more than a hundred and fifty miles southwest of here, so I'm not asking you to give me a ride there. All I need is to get to a phone." This sounded ungrateful. "Um, thank you."

The rider grunted again. "No, you don't need to get to a phone; you need to get to someplace to spend the night. No one's sending a tow all the way out here until morning, girl."

At the age of thirty, I thought I had outgrown being called 'girl', no matter how small I was. "My name's Irene." It wasn't, but I felt the need to introduce myself although he hadn't asked me to. I wanted to know his name in any case, though I wasn't willing to tell him mine for a number of reasons. "What's yours?"

"You can call me Deadman," he said after a moment's consideration. He pronounced it like two words run together, not like a surname. I laughed a little; a name like that must be a biker handle. He seemed to feel the laugh the way I had felt his grunt. "No, it's not my given name. But that isn't yours either."

"Huh? How did you know?" I felt my hands tense around him.

"I knew."

"Oh." This was not a guy who let anyone put anything over on him, obviously, not even minor details of fact. "Well, 'Irene' is going to have to do."

"Suit yourself," he said. We rode in silence for a while, the sun's glow disappearing entirely over the rim of the world, though we chased it at high speed. The night was entirely dark but for the beam of the Harley's headlight on the road ahead and a dim glow from the stars that outlined the crest of the hills. I had dreaded spending the night alone in the dark; alone in the dark with an enormous biker named Deadman wasn't less frightening, though so far he had at least been charitable.

"Um…" I ventured.

"Yeah?"

"Where are we going?"

"Place I know."

"A motel? Someplace with a restaurant?"

"No," he briefly replied.

"I…I'm really thirsty. And I haven't had anything to eat today, except a candy bar."

He grunted as if surprised. "Hungry?"

"Yes. I was sitting there a long time!" Why would it seem strange that I was hungry and thirsty?

For a moment Deadman twisted to look over his shoulder, though it was so dark I doubted he could see my face. He turned back again to keep his eyes on the road. "I'll be damned," he said softly. His body shifted in my arms as if he were testing their grip. "Say, girl. When you blew your tire…you remember getting, uh, hurt?"

"Huh? No." Hadn't he seen I wasn't injured? Did he think I'd hit my head? "I stopped before I hit the ditch. I'm fine. Aside from being thirsty."

"I'll be damned," he said again.

"What's the matter?" He shook his head slowly without saying a word. "If we're going a long way, I'd appreciate it if you could stop somewhere and let me get something to—"

"Right saddlebag," he said with a shrug. I looked down at it hanging behind my thigh. "Don't go spilling everything out."

"I won't." I leaned over, holding him with my left arm, and unbuckled the flap. Inside I felt a few cans of beer, warm, and something that felt like a package of beef jerky. I reached a little farther and my fingers encountered something cooler, something that shifted and clanked: a length of heavy chain. I didn't care to probe further into the belongings of a man who carried around a length of chain, so I retreated and pulled out a can of beer. I didn't much like beer, especially not when it was warm, but I was so thirsty it didn't matter. I would have drunk out of an oily mud puddle in the road right then.

I put the can down on the saddle in front of me, between my legs where it wouldn't fall and buckled the saddlebag again, trying to figure out how to open the beer. Only one hand was free, and I didn't want to let go of the rider to pop the top of the can—the bike was going at least eighty miles an hour and I didn't feel secure.

Before I could say a word, Deadman reached back and took the can from between my legs. His knuckles brushed the inside of my left thigh; my sharp intake of breath might have been audible to him, and my breasts pressing into his back with the sudden expansion of my chest certainly was noticeable. Steering with his elbows for a moment, the rider opened the can and handed it back to me. "Th-thanks." I gulped the warm, bitter beer and felt the thirst ease a little. At least it was wet. "How much farther is it?"

"Not too far." We topped a rise and I saw lights down in the hollow; a small cluster of buildings by the road. We had come about twenty-five miles from where my car had broken down, so I was glad I hadn't tried to walk it. My boots had three-inch heels and I wasn't much of a hiker in any case. One of the buildings was a gas station, one was a bar, one was a garage. Several houses sat back from the road with lighted windows here and there; a few scraggly trees grew at the side of the gas station, silhouetted against the lights.

It took a few minutes to reach the bottom, and my spirits rose higher on the way. Civilization it wasn't, but it was lights and other people and food and drink. I needed food—one beer on an empty stomach may not sound like much, but when you barely weigh a hundred and five soaking wet it can go to your head fast. I felt a little dizzy. The rider pulled into the bar's parking lot; both the gas station and the garage were dark. When we rolled into the lighted area, he stopped the bike, turned and took my chin in one hand, tilting my face to the glare. My eyes went wide and I trembled; he looked at me again very carefully, brows down low with a speculative frown moving over his face.

"What?" I said faintly, head spinning.

The rider had a rueful grin. "Damn, you didn't run off the road after all."


	3. Chapter 3

"Huh?"

"I thought you just hadn't realized it yet."

"Realized what?"

"You smell of death, girl. Strong. Like no soul who ever rode on this bike. But you aren't dead. Not when you're wanting to eat and drink, and not when you've still got sweat on your skin." He drew a finger across my forehead. "Alive. I'll be damned." He laughed softly and spoke almost to himself. "Not that I'm not already most of the way there..." I pulled my chin out of his grasp, flabbergasted. He was insane! Or something else? Drunk? I didn't smell alcohol on him, so maybe it was drugs. But his eyes were clear and his voice was firm, a dark sort of humor curling the corners of his mouth. "What the hell; I got you, so we'll make the best of it. Fifteen minutes," he said, turning off the ignition and dismounting. "Don't go wandering off, it's not safe."

"What? Isn't this where we're stopping?" I hadn't seen this settlement on the map; a battered hand painted sign by the road said 'Camino del Muerte'. I didn't like the look of the place, but it might be preferable to going any further with Deadman. "Nope. Another ways to go—place called Hanging Crick. This is just a pit stop." He was heading towards the bar, coat swinging. I followed, having to jog to keep up with his mile-long strides. The parking lot was half full of old Cars and pickups and motorcycles, and when Deadman opened the door the noise of the bar spilled out into the night. The peeling paint on the concrete-block wall read 'Last Ride Saloon.'

The noise quieted a little when the patrons turned to see who the newcomer was, and went dead still for a few heartbeats when he walked in. I came in behind him. The door slammed and I stood alone as Deadman headed to the bar and sat down, tapping the counter with one index finger. The bartender, after staring at both of us for a minute, especially at me, slung a towel over her shoulder and drew him a beer. The conversations slowly resumed, the patrons stealing looks at the huge black-coated figure at the bar. Probably most of the inhabitants for miles around were here—it was Thursday night, eight o'clock, and I could see that this joint was the only entertainment to be had for a long, long way. About fourteen or fifteen people sat at tables, lounged at the bar, or danced slowly to the jukebox. When I didn't move from the doorway, the bartender looked at me again as she switched on the television that hung from the ceiling.

"Coming in?" She was tall and well-built, her ample hair dyed jet black, and her voice had a tone both sarcastic and humorous. "Yes, I'm coming in," I said, attempting a smile while a dozen pairs of eyes riveted on me. I went to the bar and sat one stool away from Deadman, putting my purse on the bar and folding my hands over it. A stocky man with a mane of brown hair meandered up to me.

"Hey there, lady," he slurred at me, leaning on the bar. "You wanna dance?"

"No, thank you," I said. "Could I have a cola, please?"

"A _what?"_ said the bartender, sounding just as surprised as Deadman had. She shot a glance at him; he said nothing. "Deadman?"

"Give it to her," he said impatiently. "OK; whatever you say." Shaking her head, the bartender put a can of Coke on the bar with a glass of ice.

"Aww, why not dance with me? I'm a nice guy," coaxed the drunk. He did sound like a friendly man under the cloud of alcohol, and I turned to look at him. Two upper front teeth were missing from his broad, guileless grin. "This ain't such a nasty joint as it might look to a city lady like yourself. I know how to treat a lady real nice."

"How do you know I want to be treated 'nice'? Or that I fall under any definition of a lady, for that matter?" The words fell into another dead silence and the man looked comically hurt. "Look, I don't want to dance. Sorry."

"Jack," said the bartender, leaning over and speaking in a stage whisper, "Didn't you see who she came in with?"

"Oh my God." He looked much less drunk all of a sudden, backing off and going pale. "Sorry. No offense."

"Uh…none taken." He didn't seem to be afraid that the rider would be angry with him—Deadman, ignored the whole exchange, tilting his head back and draining his beer. Jack seemed to be afraid of _me. _I couldn't make out why, since the gun was hidden in my purse and I was tiny and slim and one of the least intimidating-looking people I knew. That was why no one that morning had expected resistance; that was why I was still alive. Considering the result, perhaps he did have reason to be afraid. Could people tell what I had done just from looking at me, or…did this have something to do with the odd conversation I'd had with Deadman?

I poured my Coke and drank it as fast as I could and ordered another, eating peanuts in between gulps while the rider drank his second beer. He'd thought I was dead until I'd asked for something to eat? How on earth could he think that a dead person could move and speak and see? Did he believe in the supernatural? Certainly the people in this bar behaved as if they thought he had something to do with ghosts. Perhaps by association, they thought I did too. They thought they knew something about me that I didn't know myself. I stole a look at the rider. Did he think he knew something about me? Did he have any idea what kind of woman I was? A sudden thought chilled me—did he want to take me to this place he had mentioned in order to have his way with me? He hadn't shown much sign of sexual interest in me, though, something I thought I would easily recognize; I had probably shown more in him, to my regret.

"Excuse me," I said to the bartender. "Do you have a phone I could use?" She stared at me and pointed to a pay phone in the passageway to the toilet. I got up, dug for change and placed a call to Papa. No one answered except the machine, and I left a message telling him I was all right and to expect me later tomorrow. I gave him the names of Camino del Muerte and Hanging Crick, then hung up. Papa was probably out inquiring after my welfare or even driving my usual route back towards my house, so there was no help for it; I hoped he would think to check the machine. The bartender came around the end of the bar to kick the jukebox, which had stuck on 'Highway to Hell', and as she returned I put out a hand to get her attention. To my surprise, she flinched at my touch.

"Jesus! What do you want?"

"Sorry. Did I startle you?"

She folded her arms, her expression closing down. "Look, I know you got a right to be here. He's got a right too. But pardon me if I'm not real eager to associate with you!" I opened my eyes wide; I must have looked stricken, because the bartender's scowl relaxed slightly. "It's nothing personal, lady, but this is the first time he ever brought one of his—" She cast a look at Deadman and broke off the phrase. "Did you want to ask me something?"

"Yes, if it's not too much trouble."

"Sorry. Go ahead."

"I had a flat tire twenty or thirty miles east of here. I'm going to need a tow in the morning. How can I leave a message with the garage?"

"A…message?"

"Yes, a message. Could I leave a note with you or something? That you could give them when the place opens up?"

"Uh…I guess so." She took a bar napkin and wrote down my license plate number and the approximate spot I had left the car.

"There's something else I'd like to find out." I indicated Deadman with my eyes. "Do you know…_him?_ He gave me a lift, and he says he wants to take me to a place he knows—is it safe to go with him?"

Her face slackened into incredulity. "Is it _safe?_ Don't you know where you're going?"

"Why would I know that? I'm not from around here."

"I can see that, but…geez." For a moment she examined me from top to toe. "Look, if you don't know yet, I don't think I can explain it. I'm not going to touch that one." I could see her shrinking away from me; she was intensely uncomfortable in proximity to me, though she didn't like to show it. What on earth was her problem—_everyone's_ problem? What was the mystery?

"I don't understand," I said with some pique.

She rolled her eyes. "OK, let me put it like this; I don't think you have any choice but to go with him. If he picked you up…"

"Yes, I'd been waiting by the car for hours. He was the only person to come along."

"Yeah, he would be." She let out a breath. "OK, to answer your question. If he wants to take you somewhere, then that's probably the place you should go. As for _safety,_ I'm not sure what you mean."

"I mean…is he likely to…" I dropped my voice to a whisper. "You know. Do something to me."

"Oh…like, molest you?" The bartender pulled a strange grimace, part rueful, part repelled. "Uh…I've never heard of anything like that happening, no. That's not what he does."

"What he does? What does he do? Patrol the road or something?"

"Yeah, something. Excuse me, OK?" She backed off and went behind the bar again.

A man banged open the door and stalked into the bar with a snarl, a shaven-headed and bearded bruiser in a black leather vest and jeans with no shirt. He took the beer the bartender handed him and sat down on the other side of Deadman, glaring at both of us.

'What the hell are you doin' here, Deadman?" he bellowed. "Damn bad luck storm crow! Fucking Grim Reaper! Who's going on the ride this time around?" I saw Deadman's head move slightly, but his narrowed eyes expressed most of his opinion of the hothead. "You are goddamn pathetic, you know that? You make me fucking sick!"

"You under the delusion that I give a shit about your damn opinions?" replied Deadman.

"I know who's taking the ride!" The belligerent man bared his teeth at me as I sat down again. "I saw you haul this fancy city tart in on your bike! I warned you about mixing with decent people, and now you go bringing THEM in here! Where do you get the balls? Fucking pathetic! I wanna heave!"

"Where does this go_?"_ asked a trim Mexican man, coming in from the back room with a crate of bottled beer. "I can't fit it in the—" He caught sight of me and whistled, rotating his hips with a waggle of his mobile eyebrows. _"Ay caramba, chiquita! _The nights are cold out here…you need some Latino heat to warm you up?"

"No," I said wearily, wondering when I could leave the bar. "Thanks for the offer, but no thanks."

"Shut up, Diego," said the bartender with a swat to his wiggling backside. "Put it under the counter for now. And keep it in your pants!" Diego noticed the rider and seemed to make the connection between him and me. Putting down the crate of beer, he quickly crossed himself and disappeared into the back room again.

"You goddamn carrion-eating vulture," continued the belligerent man as if he had not been interrupted, pointing with his middle finger. "Where'd you find this stuck-up cunt? Hunting road kill again? You make me _puke!"_

"Yeah, huntin' road kill," said Deadman, his jaw working as if he were chewing bones. "Just found me a squashed rattlesnake. I think his real name is Jim though" He finished his second beer, slammed the mug down on the bar and stood up, cracking his knuckles. "Got his head beat in somehow." The hothead glared at him with an ugly snarl. "Yeah, looks like boot prints on old Rattlesnake's face," said the rider, pretending to consider the question. "But it might be road burns from somebody draggin' him behind a bike." He smiled, far less pleasantly than the first time I had seen him do so.

"You sick, pathetic freak!" yelled Jim, stabbing both middle fingers in the air.

"Outside, boys!" said the bartender, flexing one well-conditioned arm and tossing her black mane. "You bust up the place and I will knock your fool heads together, and I mean you too" she said pointing and Deadman.


End file.
